Charles Cumming - A spy by nature

It is five o’clock in the afternoon in Brno, one hour ahead of London. I am talking to a Mr. Klemke, the managing director of a firm of building contractors with ambitions to move into western Europe.

“Particularly France,” he says.

“Well, then I think our publication would be perfect for you, sir.”

“Publicsation? I’m sorry. This word.”

“Our publication, our magazine. The Central European Business Review. It’s published every three months and has a circulation of four hundred thousand copies worldwide.”

“Yes, yes. And this is new magazine, printed in London?”

Anna, back from a long lunch, sticks a Post-it note on the desk in front of me. Scrawled in girly swirls she has written, “Saul rang. Coming here later.”

“That’s correct,” I tell Klemke. “Printed here in London and distributed worldwide. Four hundred thousand copies.”

Nik is looking at me.

“And, Mr. Mills, who is the publisher of this magazine? Is it yourself?”

“No, sir. I am one of our advertising executives.”

“I see.”

I envision him as large and rotund, a benign Robert Maxwell. I envision them all as benign Robert Maxwells.

“And you want me to advertise, is that what you are asking?”

“I think it would be in your interest, particularly if you are looking to expand into western Europe.”

“Yes, particularly France.”

“France.”

“And you have still not told me who is publishing this magazine in London. The name of person who is editor.”

Nik has started reading the sports pages of The Independent.

“It’s a Mr. Jarolmek.”

He folds one side of the newspaper down with a sudden crisp rattle, alarmed.

Silence in Brno.

“Can you say this name again, please?”

“Jarolmek.”

I look directly at Nik, eyebrows raised, and spell out J-a-r-o-l-m-e-k with great slowness and clarity down the phone. Klemke may yet bite.

“I know this man.”

“Oh, you do?”

Trouble.

“Yes. My brother, of my wife, he is a businessman also. In the past he has published with this Mr. Jarolmek.”

“In the Central European Business Review?”

“If this is what you are calling this now.”

“It’s always been called that.”

Nik puts down the paper, pushes his chair out behind him, and stands up. He walks over to my desk and perches on it. Watching me. And there, on the other side of the mews, is Saul, leaning coolly against the wall smoking a cigarette like a private investigator. I have no idea how long he has been standing there. Something heavy falls over in Klemke’s office.

“Well, it’s a small world,” I say, gesturing to Saul to come in. Anna is grinning as she dials a number on her telephone. Long brown slender arms.

“It is my belief that Jarolmek is a robber and a con man.”

“I’m sorry, uh, I’m sorry, why…why do you feel that?”

A quizzical look from Nik, perched there. Saul now coming in through the door.

“My brother paid a large sum of money to your organization two separate times-”

Don’t let him finish.

“-And he didn’t receive a copy of the magazine? Or experience any feedback from his advertisement?”

“Mr. Mills, do not interrupt me. I have something I want to say to you and I do not wish to be interrupted.”

“I’m sorry. Do go on.”

“Yes, I will go on. I will go on. My brother then met with a British diplomat in Prague at a function dinner who had not heard of your publication.”

“Really?”

“And when he goes to look it up, it is not listed in any of our documentation here in Czech Republic. How do you explain this?”

“There must be some misunderstanding.”

Nik stands up and spits, “What the fuck is going on?” in an audible whisper. He presses the loudspeaker button on my telephone and Klemke’s riled gravelly voice echoes out into the room.

“Misunderstanding? No, I don’t believe it is. You are a fraud. My brother of my wife has made inquiries into your circulation and it appears that you do not sell as widely as you say. You are lying to people in Europe and making promises. My brother was going to report you. And now I will do the same.”

Nik stabs the button again and pulls the receiver out of my hand.

“Hello. Yes. This is Nikolas Jarolmek. Can I help you with something?”

Saul looks at me quizzically, nodding his head at Nik, fishing lazily about in the debris on my desk. He has had his hair cut very short, almost shaved to the skull.

Suddenly Nik is shouting, a clatter of a language I do not understand. Cursing, sweating, chopping the air with his small stubby hands. He spits insults into the phone, parries Klemke’s threats with raging animosities, hangs up with a bang.

“You stupid fucking arsehole!”

He turns on me, shouting, his arms spread like push-ups on the desk.

“What were you doing keeping that fucker on the phone? You could get me in jail. You stupid fucking…cunt!”

Cunt sounds like a word he has just learned in the playground.

“What, for fuck’s sake? What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“What were you…you stupid. Fucking hell, I should pay my dog to sit there. My fucking dog would do a better job than you.”

I am too ashamed to look at Saul.

“Nik, I’m sorry, but-”

“Sorry? Oh, well then, that’s all right…”

“No, sorry, but-”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry.”

“Look!”

This from Saul. He is on his feet. He’s going to say something. Oh, Jesus.

“He’s not saying he’s sorry. If you’d just listen, he’s not saying he’s sorry. It’s not his fault if some wanker in Warsaw catches on to what you’re up to and starts giving him an earful! Why don’t you calm down, for Christ’s sake?”

“Who the fuck are you?” says Nik. He really likes this guy.

“I’m a friend of Alec’s. Take it easy.”

“And he can’t take care of himself? You can’t take care of yourself now, Alec, eh?”

“Of course he can take care of himself…”

“Nik, I can take care of myself. Saul, it’s all right. We’ll go and get a coffee. I’ll just get out of here for a while.”

“For more than a while,” says Nik. “Don’t come back. I don’t want to see you. You come back tomorrow. This is enough for one day.”

“Jesus, what a cunt.”

Now Saul is someone who really knows the time and place for effective use of the word cunt. I feel like asking him to say it again.

“I can’t believe you work for that guy.”

We are standing on either side of a table football game in a cafe on Edgware Road. I take a worn white ball from the trough below my waist and feed it through the hole onto the table. Saul traps the ball with the still black feet of his plastic man before gunning it down the table into my goal.

“The object of the game is to stop that kind of thing from happening.”

“It’s my goalkeeper.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He has personal problems.”

Saul gives a wheezy laugh, lifts his cigarette from a Coca-Cola ashtray, and takes a drag.

“What language was it that Nik was speaking?”

“Czech. Slovak. One of the two.”

“Play, play.”

The ball thunders and slaps on the rocking table.

“Better than Nintendo, eh?”

“Yes, Grandpa,” says Saul, scoring.

“Shit.”

He slides another red counter along the abacus. Five-nil.

“Don’t be afraid to compete, Alec. Carpe diem.”

I attempt a deft sideways shunt of the ball in midfield, but it skewers away at an angle. Coming back down the table, Saul saying, “Now that is skill,” it rolls loose in front of my center half. I grip the clammy handle with rigid fingers and whip it so that the neat row of figures rotates in a propeller blur. Saul’s hand flies to the right and his goalkeeper saves the incoming ball.